The Coming Storm
by Clutching at Straws
Summary: Alone, in trouble and facing jail, Buddy Hawks is made an offer he can't refuse, or can he? COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Kenner and a bunch of animation studios. All I own is the situation, plot and backstory.

Author Note: If you're a M.A.S.K. canon purist, you may want to look away now. I'm playing a little fast and loose with one or two canon elements. I hope you can forgive me.

With many thanks to Tnonsum, Angel, Ganeris and Freespirit127 for editing, feedback and patient hand holding.

* * *

The Coming Storm

One

Vanessa was going to kill him.

That was Buddy's main thought as he sat in the antiseptic interview room waiting to find out what was going to happen to him. He'd been stupid before, but never like this. This was serious. What the hell had he been thinking? Granted, robbing the convenience store had seemed like a good idea when Rax had suggested it, and it certainly wasn't outside the list of other misdemeanours he'd committed (not that his record showed that; he'd always managed to be smart enough not to be caught). But going in with a baseball bat?

Buddy shook his head. That had been a dumb move. He wasn't a naturally violent person. If anything, the idea of attacking someone just because they were there made him feel sick. And then there was the whole issue of the trouble he'd be in, if he were caught. Now, thanks to Rax, here he was. Caught and probably facing jail time.

Yep; Vanessa was going to kill him.

At this point in Buddy's thoughts, the interview room's door opened to admit a man in a suit. Buddy's first impression of him was that the man was tall and with a heavy-set build that would have made Buddy think at least twice before picking his pocket. The suit, on the other hand, would have seriously tempted Buddy to risk it anyway; it looked brand new and far too well cut to be off just any rack. Between that, the neat haircut and the unlined face, Buddy got the impression this was someone with some serious money.

Buddy frowned. Had someone actually paid for him to see a lawyer? Couldn't be. No-one he knew had the kind of money a lawyer who looked like this would cost. So who the hell was this jerk and why was he here?

"Hi," said the man. Buddy just stared at him. "Nice mess you're in."

Who was this jerk? Did he honestly think Buddy hadn't noticed he was in deep shit over this? "Look; you're not a cop, and if you're a lawyer, you should know, I can't afford you."

"I'm not a lawyer," said the man, his smile changing to a more serious expression.

"Then I guess I don't want to speak to you."

"That's a pity," said the man, taking a seat on the room's other chair, "because I very much want to speak to you."

Buddy blinked. "Me?"

"You."

"Oh, this should be good." Buddy folded his arms across his chest and glared. "Mister---"

"Matt," said the man. "Matt Trakker."

"Mister," Buddy retorted, "I don't know what messed up bullshit they've fed you, but I ain't someone people 'what to speak to'." Was this going to be the Wilkinsons all over again? Shit; he didn't need this on top of everything else.

"What makes you think 'they' have fed me bullshit?" Matt asked.

Buddy jabbed a finger in his direction. "You're here."

"Oh, I get it." Matt nodded. "You think the only reason I'd be here is if someone had lied to me about you."

"It's happened before."

And to Buddy's general surprise, Matt winced. "What would it take for you to believe they haven't lied to me? That I really do want to speak to you?"

"You tell me why you want to talk to me; I'll tell you if I believe it."

Matt nodded. "All right. I'm looking for a mechanic."

"Sorry; can't help you."

"I think you can." Matt leaned forwards in his seat. "I had a very interesting conversation with Mac Stevens yesterday."

Buddy blinked again. If this guy had been speaking to Mac he was bound to have heard a pretty unvarnished opinion. "All right, so you're serious. Why me?"

"I have a job going," said Matt. "A proper job, decent wage, place to live – the whole works."

"A mechanic's job, right?"

"Partly." Unwillingly curious, Buddy lifted an eyebrow. "About seventy-five percent of it will be regular work at a gas station. The rest's going to be experimental work. Inventive work, sometimes. Coming up with solutions to problems. Designing new vehicles."

Unwilling or not, now Buddy was interested. It almost sounded like his dream job. Of course, Mac would have told this guy that, but still, it seemed like a genuine offer. "What kind of vehicles?"

"All kinds of vehicles," said Matt. "How about it?"

For just a second, Buddy entertained the idea of accepting the job. Then common sense reasserted itself. He was facing jail time. There was no way this could work out. "Mister---"

"Matt."

"Whatever. Look, it's not that I'm not grateful but it can't work. Or didn't they tell you why I'm here?" Buddy waved a hand as if to encompass the interview room.

"Attempted armed robbery of the convenience store on Valmont Road at nine o'clock last night. You were grabbed by the owner, your partner managed to escape. Did I leave anything out?"

Buddy flushed. "So they did tell you."

"They did," Matt agreed. "And part of this deal will be that you're paroled to me. It's not your first offence, but as everything else has just been small acts of vandalism, and this is the first time you've ever tried something like this, the authorities are willing to give you one last chance."

"So it's what; I go with you and do this or I do jail time?"

"Pretty much," said Matt.

"Not much of a choice."

"I suppose it isn't," Matt agreed. "Look at it this way: Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in and out of jail? That's where you're heading at the moment and you know what? I think you're smarter than that. Mac certainly thinks so."

"Aren't you afraid I'll let you down?" Buddy asked. "You've seen my record."

"You might," said Matt easily. "But I don't think you will."

Vanessa would have told him to accept the offer already. Buddy sighed. "All right; I'll do it."

* * *

So far as Buddy was concerned, the next hour was pure torture. There was paperwork to be filled out by him, paperwork to be filled out by Matt, paperwork to be filled out by the convenience store owner, more paperwork for Matt, paperwork for the social worker who'd been assigned to him by the state of Colorado (since Buddy was still, just, under eighteen), yet more paperwork for Matt – in fact, Buddy began to wonder if there was going to be paperwork for everyone including the police station janitor mopping the hallway behind him! 

The longer the process took, the more antsy Buddy began to feel. It wasn't just the overwhelming nature of the paperwork. He couldn't help but remember what had happened with the Wilkinsons. They had been all hot to adopt him. Then the paperwork had come out and so had his record. They'd left so fast there'd practically been scorch marks on the floor. Since Matt had spoken to Mac and had quite clearly gotten the whole deal on exactly what he'd done, Buddy was almost positive **that** couldn't happen again. On the other hand, Matt could always decide this was more trouble than he was worth.

"All done."

Matt's statement made Buddy jump. Looking up, he realised that Matt looked amused. "No more forms?"

"Nope," said Matt. "We can go." Buddy sighed in relief and Matt chuckled. "I feel a little like that," he admitted.

"It's not just that; my sister'll be going nuts," Buddy admitted.

"Sister?" Matt looked puzzled as he led the way out of the police station and over to a red Camaro that looked almost brand new. "I thought you didn't have any family."

Buddy shrugged, suddenly feeling vaguely embarrassed. "I don't. Not officially. Family's what you make it."

"I see." Matt nodded, unlocking the car. "What's her name?"

"Vanessa." Buddy might have said more, but at that moment, the car's gull-wing doors lifted up and he found himself admiring the mechanics and the skill that had to have gone into making the car.

There was a chuckle from beside him. "That was my reaction to it, too," Matt observed.

"It's a beauty."

"More than you know," said Matt with a grin that suggested there **was** much more to the car than necessarily met the eye. "But you will know." Matt gestured towards the passenger seat. "Get in; we'll go over to the home. You've probably got stuff to collect, and we'll see if your sister's there---"

"She won't be," Buddy cut in. "She---" He stopped.

"She?" prompted Matt, turning on the ignition.

"She, kinda, moved out."

"Hm." Matt frowned as they started to pull out of the parking lot. "Define moved out."

Buddy sighed. Vanessa had sworn him to secrecy over this. "She was having some, ah, problems with one of the other guys there. She's eighteen in two months. It was easier all round to just let her go."

"Then where does she live?"

Buddy grimaced. "With a friend of ours. Hers."

"Someone you don't like all that much," Matt judged.

Buddy thought of Rax and snorted. "Not much."

"Well, we could swing by there, too; if you want?" Matt offered.

"No. Thanks." Buddy could imagine all too clearly the mocking from Rax. He wasn't a violent person, but for Rax, he was beginning to think he might just make an exception. "But she'll know to look for me at Mac's shop."

"Then once we're done at the home, we'll stop there." Matt smiled. "Family's important."

* * *

"I see Mr Trakker caught up with you," Mac Stevens observed as Buddy entered the motorcycle store. 

"What? Oh. Yeah." Buddy blushed again and glanced back in the direction of the Camaro, where Matt was waiting. "Uh, thanks."

Mac, an aging ex-Hell's Angel, tipped his head back and laughed. "What for, kid?"

"Well--- For whatever it was you said to him."

"I didn't do nothin' 'cept tell him the truth. That you're a good kid in a bad crowd and that you could practically build an engine outta string, duct tape and gum." Mac shrugged. "Now don't you go screwing this up." He waggled his finger at Buddy. "I don't want to see you darkening my door again. Not unless you got more good news."

Buddy smiled. "I won't." He looked around. "Is Vanessa here?"

Mac sniffed. "I ain't seen her. Or that shiftless bastard she's dating."

Buddy grimaced. "Can't say I'm big on seeing him."

Mac gave him a pointed stare. "You been in more trouble?"

"Deeper shit than usual." Buddy shrugged. "They've paroled me to, ah, Matt's care. I screw up this time, it's his ass as well as mine."

"Hmpf." Mac shook his head. "Like I said. Good kid, bad crowd."

"Would you be able to give Vanessa a message?"

"If she comes in."

"She'll come in." Buddy sighed. "She knows she can always find me here 'up to my neck in grease'."

Mac chuckled. "Guess that's a fair description."

"Besides, I was supposed to go see her last night. And---"

"And you were otherwise occupied," Mac guessed. "All right; what's this message?"

Buddy pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. "She can reach me here."

Mac unfolded the slip and looked at it. "Boulder Hill Gas Station. Hm. Fancy place on the road west. Cushy job, kid. When do you start?"

"Tomorrow."

"All right; I'll tell her." Mac paused. "And if she goes up there to see you, you see if you can't talk some sense into her. I don't like Rax. I think he's trouble and she listens to you."

"Not over Rax," said Buddy. "Never over Rax. Last night was his fault, but she'll probably tell you it was mine."

Mac winced. "She's in over her head."

Buddy had been on the point of turning away. He now froze. "What do you mean?"

Mac shrugged. "I don't know, kid; I've only heard some vague rumours."

"But?"

"Let's just say, if you were in with a bad crowd, she's gotten in with a worse one."

Buddy turned back to fully face Mac. "No, let's not just say that," he said. "This is my sister you're talking about. She's all I've got."

Mac sighed. "Then, kid, I think you're on your own." Buddy opened his mouth to say something else, but Mac just fixed him with a glare. "Look, kid, maybe I'm wrong. I hope I'm wrong. I like Vanessa; she's a nice girl. But nice girls don't hang out with Sly Rax and they sure as shit don't know folks like Bruno Sheppard."

"Who?"

"Hired muscle moved in from outta state some place." Mac shrugged. "I don't know him and from what I've heard, I don't care to, either." The biker shrugged again. "Like I said. Try and talk some sense into her pretty little head now, while she can still get out."

Buddy gulped. "As bad as that?"

Mac shrugged again. "You ask, I tell. You know how it works with me." He tapped the slip of paper, now lying on the shop counter. "I'll make sure she gets this."

"Thanks, Mac."

"Any time, kid. Now you get goin'. You got a life ahead of you. Go start livin' it." Mac pointed at the shop door. "I mean it."

Buddy swallowed, trying to get rid of the sudden lump in his throat. "See ya round, Mac."

* * *

It was a mostly silent car journey away from Mac's shop. Buddy was too deeply wrapped up in his thoughts to give any of Matt's questions more than the baldest of answers. After a couple of efforts at conversation, Matt gave up on it and concentrated fully on where they were going. 

That suited Buddy.

He had a lot to think about.

How had he not noticed Vanessa getting into trouble? Though Mac hadn't said so, Buddy got the impression that the older man thought this had been going on for some time, and the older man had said Rax was a part of that. He and Vanessa had known Rax nearly two years. That was a long time for him to not notice something this big.

Of course, there had been other things going on. Like trouble at the home. The problems Vanessa had had with Zeljko and Mikey had occupied him for the first half of that time. There'd been run-ins with the police, too. And there had been that whole argument with the organisers of the racer competition.

At the memory of that, Buddy snorted. The organisers hadn't wanted him to enter, saying his racer design was illegal when it wasn't; there was nothing in the rules that said it couldn't be built out of scrap. It had only been Mac's intervention that had managed to rescue the whole venture. Buddy felt he'd had the last laugh there, though; thanks to Vanessa's piloting skills and his innate engineering talent, they'd easily won the three race series. He'd been denied the designer's award, but that didn't matter; he'd designed it for speed, and speed it had.

So maybe he did have some excuse. It just wasn't much of one, and none of that gave him any reason not to have noticed anything wrong in the last six months. And there was another question that nagged away at him: Would Vanessa listen to what he had to say? If she hadn't taken it from Mac, would he be able to convince her? She could be as stubborn as he could when she thought she was right and Buddy knew, from previous conversations, she couldn't see anything wrong with Rax.

It felt like an attempt that was doomed to fail even before he had a chance to try it.

"Well, here we are."

Matt's comment drew Buddy out of his thoughts. Blinking, he realised that where they were was just pulling in to a large estate somewhere to the west of Boulder itself. He whistled softly. The estate matched every last assumption he'd made the moment Matt had walked into the interview room. The mansion – and there was no other word for it – was huge, with expansive grounds. Buddy wasn't sure how far they extended, but if the gardens in front of the mansion were anything to go by, miles didn't seem out of the question.

"This place is huge!" he breathed.

Matt chuckled. "My great-grandfather came to Colorado in the 1850s and made a fortune in silver," he said, by way of explanation. "Though this isn't his original house. That was somewhere higher up in the mountains. He built this for my grandparents, when they got married."

"Some wedding present!"

"You could say that."

Buddy was silent as Matt pulled the car up in front of the wide entry steps. He suddenly felt very, very intimidated and self-conscious. Anything would have been better than this; heck, jail would have been better than this! At least in jail he'd have fit in. Here, in the visibly luxurious surroundings, he felt like a fish dropped in the desert.

And then it got a whole lot worse.

Through the door came a Goddess – at least, that was Buddy's first thought when he saw her. She was beautiful and smiling and though she was dressed in pants and a loose shirt that was covered in some impressive paint splots, she still contrived to look chic and elegant. _Why the hell did I think this was going to be a good idea?_ Buddy wondered. _There's no way this is going to work._

"This is my wife, Sarah," said Matt, apparently oblivious of Buddy's discomfort.

"Wife," Buddy echoed. "Right."

"You took your time," Sarah was observing as Matt climbed out of the Camaro.

"Paperwork," Matt answered. "And there were a couple of stops to make on the way back."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I might have known you couldn't do anything without it becoming complicated." Then she turned her attention to the car, where Buddy was still wondering if there was any way he could actually escape this. "Hi," she said. "I'm Sarah Trakker."

With little other option, Buddy got out of the car; bringing with him the duffel bag of possessions he'd collected from the children's home. "Uh, hi," he mumbled, acutely aware that his jeans were ripped, his t-shirt was stained and that his jacket had an impressive grease mark left over from trying to unclog a fuel line for Mac the day before.

As oblivious as her husband, Sarah simply smiled. "Very nice to meet you. Sorry about the mess," she added, gesturing to her shirt, which left Buddy feeling even more awkward, "I don't suppose Matt's told you, but I'm an artist."

Artist. That fit, somehow. Buddy mustered a weak smile and said nothing.

Sarah gave him an enquiring look, but her next words were directed at Matt: "Alex is here, by the way. Said it was important."

Matt grimaced. "It would be. Would you mind giving Buddy the tour? I'd better see what's up."

Sarah smiled. "No; of course." To Buddy, she said, "You'll probably meet Alex sooner or later, but for now, let me show you around." And she started to draw Buddy up the steps and into the house.

"See you at dinner," Matt called.

"We'll hold you to that," Sarah responded, then Matt was lost to Buddy's gaze as he found himself in an entry hall that fit every imagining he'd come up with for the house and then some.

A black-and-white tiled floor, polished to glass-like slipperiness, meant that Buddy spent most of his time concentrating on where he was putting his feet. One brief look up told him that there was a wide staircase that swept down both to the left and right. Another brief glimpse showed him a lavish crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling. From the corner of his eye, he could see gilt-edged paintings hanging on the walls and he had to consciously stop himself from wondering what they'd fetch if he handed them over to Enzo.

A light tap on his arm from Sarah directed him through a doorway to the left, beyond that arm of the stairs. Here, at least, the flooring wasn't quite so treacherous; the hallway Buddy found himself walking along was carpeted with expensive looking thick red pile carpet. But that just made him conscious that his sneakers were old and filthy. And then there were the long glass fronted display cabinets filled with china and glassware. They just made Buddy nervous. What if he tripped and fell?

"Awful, isn't it," Sarah commented, apparently apropos of nothing.

"Uh, huh?" Buddy blinked.

Sarah gave him a grin and waved her hand at the display cabinets. "Matt's mother had a passion for this stuff," she explained. "Don't let it worry you. Most of it's not that expensive, and between you and me," she added conspiratorially, "I don't think Matt would be heart broken if one or two bits, ah, met with an accident."

Buddy stared for a moment. "Uh?"

Sarah giggled. "Honestly, the whole house isn't like this," she promised. "We mainly live in this wing," and she gestured vaguely towards the end of the hallway. "And that looks much less like a museum since we've got a very active eighteen month old son."

Buddy blinked again. Somehow, that was the last thing he'd been expecting Sarah to tell him.

Sarah frowned. "Matt didn't tell you?" Mutely, Buddy shook his head. "Oh, I think I'll be having words with Matthew about this. He might have warned you about Scott, at least!"

"Why?" Buddy ventured.

"You haven't lived with a baby before?" Sarah asked. Buddy shook his head again. "You'll see." Then she smiled. "Meantime, we had to move all the breakables out – which is why they're all here."

"Oh." Buddy began to feel a little more at ease.

Abruptly, Sarah took one of the many side doors and Buddy found himself at the foot of a much less ornate set of stairs. "Up here," she directed. "This set of rooms is where Matt's mother lived after Matt's father died; it's self-contained and has a small kitchen as well as a bathroom, bedroom and living room."

As they reached the top of the stairs, Sarah produced a set of keys from her pocket and held it out to Buddy.

"The silver one locks this suite," she explained, "the bronze one's for one of the mansion's side doors – I'll show you which one in a minute or two. It'll mean you can come and go as you like."

Buddy stared. "You--- Wait, you mean you're trusting me with keys?"

Sarah grinned. "Any reason we shouldn't?" Buddy just stared mutely at Sarah. Surely Matt had told his wife about Buddy's record. Hadn't he? "If you're thinking about your record," she added, obviously guessing what was running through his mind, "yes, I know about it. And yes, we're trusting you with keys."

Buddy opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, unable to find anything coherent to say.

"Let me show you round," Sarah offered, unlocking the door.

Dumbly, Buddy followed her through, into the suite of rooms. The first room they came to was obviously the living room. There was a couch and a couple of armchairs grouped around a low coffee table, while beneath the wide windows stood an equally wide desk. Though all the furniture looked good quality, he could see none of it was brand new, which made him feel a little more at ease.

"Through there is the bedroom," said Sarah, waving her hand at an open doorway off to the left. "There's extra bedding in the drawers beneath the bed, if you need it."

Curious and overwhelmed, Buddy took a look through the doorway, just in case there was anything odd about the bedroom, but there wasn't. It was a regular bed with a couple of regular looking nightstands and a couple of closets. Like the living room, all the furniture was good but not new. He set his duffel bag down beside the foot of the bed, then turned back towards Sarah, who was still smiling.

"The bathroom opens off the bedroom," she offered. Buddy nodded. "Then the kitchen," she added, "is through here." And she waved a hand in the direction of the doorway immediately opposite the bedroom door. "It isn't much, but it means you don't have to eat dinner with us every night."

Buddy finally found his voice: "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," Sarah replied. "I can give you the rest of the tour now, or would you like a chance to settle in first?"

"Uh, settle in, I think," Buddy stammered.

"All right." Sarah smiled. "I'll come back in an hour; or you can come and find me. I'll be back in my studio; which is down the stairs, then back the way we came and just beyond the entrance hall on the other side." She grinned. "I'll probably have the radio on, so you won't be able to miss it."

"OK." Buddy mustered a smile. "Thank you."

Sarah set the keys down on the coffee table, then left.

For a moment or two, Buddy looked around, shaking his head. This all seemed like a lot to take in. How had he gone from being one step away from jail to actually having a suite of rooms in a mansion like this?

Buddy yawned.

It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't had anything that even remotely resembled sleep the previous night and today was proving to be a very long and weird adventure. Maybe it would be OK to sit down, just for a while.

* * *

When, after a couple of hours, Sarah hadn't seen anything of Buddy, she headed back to the little apartment and knocked on the door. There was no response. She debated for a moment whether to check any further, then shrugged a little and quietly pushed the door open. There, in one of the armchairs, was Buddy; sound asleep. 

Sarah smiled and closed the door again. Exactly what she'd suspected.

At the bottom of the stairs, she found Matt, who lifted his eyebrows.

"Where's Buddy?"

"Fast asleep," Sarah answered. "Poor kid. He looked like he was running on fumes earlier, so I'm not surprised."

"Hm." Matt shook his head. "I should have thought of that."

"He's going to need feeding up, too," Sarah continued, leading the way towards their own rooms. "He's painfully thin."

"I know." Matt sighed. "Makes you wonder just how well the system really works."

"Or what would happen to Scott if something ever happened to us," Sarah finished.

"Nothing's going to happen to us---" Matt began.

"And Duane Kennedy's visit eighteen months ago was my imagination," said Sarah with a little sarcasm. "Matt, I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. You're involved in something to do with hunting down Miles Mayhem." She gave him a shrewd look. "And whatever it is, Buddy's going to be involved, too."

"I had hoped to keep you and Scott out of it," said Matt.

"And how are you going to do that?" Sarah demanded. "You know Mayhem. You know what he's like."

"Which is why he's not going to know who's after him," Matt finished.

"That's fine for you, and for Alex. You know what you're getting into and yeah," Sarah added, "you both have a score to settle with Mayhem for what he did four years ago. I get that." She swallowed. "But what right have you got dragging a kid like Buddy into this mess?"

Without saying a word, Matt drew Sarah into one of the unused rooms, then closed the door behind them.

"Matt?"

"You remember Mac Stevens?" Matt asked.

Puzzled, Sarah nodded. "I remember the fuss your father made over you and Andy hanging out with him."

A brief smile crossed Matt's face. "Mac's still doing the same thing now as he was back then. He's looking out for kids who maybe can't look out for themselves. He's how I got to hear about Buddy."

"OK. So?"

"So Mac told me yesterday that someone else was looking for Buddy. A 'fat, grey-haired, pompous asshole', was how Mac put it."

"Mayhem?" Sarah wasn't surprised when Matt nodded. "So you got to him first."

"Buddy's a special talent," said Matt. "And he's a nice kid, too. I want to give him a shot at a decent life."

"And stop Mayhem from 'having' him," Sarah finished dryly. "Matt, I hope you know what you're doing."

* * *

Buddy woke with a start. How long had he been asleep? The rapidly gathering gloom suggested that afternoon was nearly over which meant several hours. _Way to make an impression,_ he berated himself as he stiffly uncurled himself from the chair. What was he supposed to do now? Should he see if Sarah was still in her studio? Or--- 

There was a knock on the door.

"Uh, yeah?" Buddy found himself oddly surprised by the formality. Privacy had never been a big thing at the home.

The door opened and Sarah's head appeared. "Hi," she said. "Feel better for the sleep?"

Buddy blinked owlishly. "Uh, yeah. Sorry."

Sarah grinned. "Don't be; you looked like you could use it." And to Buddy's annoyance, he found himself blushing. He hoped Sarah couldn't tell. "We're going to have dinner. You're welcome to join us."

At the mention of dinner, Buddy's stomach growled, loudly. He blushed even harder and mumbled, "Um, sure."

"I'll come back in about fifteen minutes," Sarah offered. "Give you a chance to wake up a bit more."

And before Buddy could say anything, she'd withdrawn again.

For a second or two, he felt panic stricken. What the hell had he let himself in for now? Then he gave himself a mental shake. This was just dinner. Not some extended intelligence test or form of torture. Dinner. Food. It should be easy enough.

Self-consciously, he glanced down at his clothing. Maybe he should see if he had anything a little less like a grease monkey's uniform, though.

* * *

Fifteen minutes, a very hasty shower and a change of clothes later, Buddy felt no better about the idea of sharing a meal with Sarah and Matt, but, as his stomach growled again, he reflected that no matter what the embarrassment factor might be, he needed to eat. 

The entire dilemma was finally laid to rest by another knock on the door. This time it was Matt who appeared.

"I don't know about you," he said, "but I'm ready for dinner."

Buddy mustered a smile. "Guess I am kinda hungry."

He followed Matt out of the suite, down the stairs and further along the hallway Sarah had been showing him. About ten yards along, Matt led him through an open doorway and into a surprisingly normal looking dining room. Already seated at the table were Sarah and a man with a bushy red beard that appeared to be trying to make up for the lack of hair on the top of his head.

"Alex, Buddy Hawks. Buddy, this is Alex Sector."

Alex smiled. "Hello," he said, accent immediately marking him as English. That was a fact that, for some reason, surprised Buddy.

"Uh, hi," he answered, trying to muster a smile.

"Have a seat, Buddy," Sarah directed. "Potatoes?"

As Buddy slid into the nearest seat, he nodded. "Su---please," he amended consciously trying to remember manners.

"All right." Sarah placed a full plate loaded with potatoes, ham and peas in front of Buddy. "Dig in before it gets cold. Alex?"

Buddy needed no further instruction. The food looked far better than anything he'd ever been given in the home – or anywhere else, for that matter – and the looks didn't lie. It might have been the nicest meal he'd ever had.

It was only when Alex said, "Careful, or you'll eat the pattern off the plate," that he realised he'd more or less inhaled the entire plateful.

"You must really like my cooking," Sarah offered.

Buddy blushed.

"There's more, if you want it," said Matt, smiling.

In a stage whisper, Alex added, "Take the chance now. Sarah only makes potatoes like this once in a blue moon!"

In spite of feeling awkward, Buddy found himself grinning. Particularly when Sarah turned a mock-scolding look on Alex and said, "And for that, Alex, you get to do the dishes tonight." To Buddy, she just said, "Don't mind them. If you want more, just say so."

"Please?" Buddy hadn't realised just how hungry he was.

The rest of the meal passed off harmlessly. There was conversation, but Buddy paid little attention to it, preferring to concentrate on eating the second, then third, helping of food. As Sarah cleared the plates, however, he stopped having anything to hide behind.

"So; you're the young man who shook up the racer competition a couple of years ago," Alex mused, slight smile on his face.

Almost instinctively, Buddy blushed, though he managed to hold his head up. "Guess that's me."

"Impressive machine," said Alex. "I saw it win the street race. Though," he added, "unless I very much miss my guess, you weren't driving it."

"I wasn't," Buddy admitted. "I just build 'em; I don't race 'em."

"Probably wise," said Alex.

"So who did drive?" Matt asked.

"Vanessa," Buddy answered. At Alex's slightly puzzled look, he added, "She's sorta my sister."

"Sort of?" Alex looked mystified.

"Uh," Buddy blushed, "well, we grew up together, in the home, and---"

"And I see," said Alex, smiling. "Family is what you make it."

At that moment, Sarah returned baring a chocolate cake and some plates. "Help yourselves, boys," she said, setting the cake and plates down on the table. "I've got the dishes to take care of and Scott's just woken up, so you'll have to excuse me."

As she departed again, Matt levered the first slice of cake onto a plate and handed it to Buddy. "We should probably get down to business," he said.

Buddy looked from Matt to Alex and back. Both suddenly looked serious. "Business?" he echoed.

"Does the name VENOM mean anything to you?" Matt asked.

Buddy frowned, slice of cake forgotten for the time being. "Uh, kinda." Where had he heard the name before? Hadn't Mac said something about it a couple of days ago? "Not sure," he finally admitted. "It sorta rings a bell."

"VENOM is, what can best be described as, a terrorist organisation," said Alex. "They're backed by several, ah, rogue nations."

"Rogue nations?" Buddy echoed.

"They're not exactly places you'd go for a vacation," said Matt. "They're also rich, thanks to natural resources, which is how they can fund a network like VENOM."

Buddy slowly nodded. What did any of this have to do with him?

"For a while now," Alex continued, "there's been some talk of trying to tackle the problem of VENOM. The difficulty is doing it without causing an international incident."

"Which is where MASK is going to come in," said Matt.

Buddy blinked. "Who?"

"Officially," said Matt with a grin, "we don't know either. Unofficially; well, let's just say we're using some of VENOM's methods against them."

Buddy stared. "You're---" But the phrase "You're nuts," seemed wrong. If anything, "nuts" seemed like a gross understatement.

"I can assure you," said Alex, "neither Matthew nor myself is insane." Then he smiled ruefully. "At least, not yet."

Buddy just looked at Alex. _I've only got your word on that!_ "Then what do you mean?" he asked.

"Eighteen months ago, Duane Kennedy decided he'd had enough of dancing to VENOM's tune," said Matt. "He authorised me to put together a task force versatile enough to take on VENOM any time, any place, any where. The why me is a bit more complicated, but trust me, there's good reasons."

That had been going to be Buddy's next question, but the expression on Matt's face suggested that maybe that information could wait. Besides, Buddy was still not sure what all this had to do with him.

"To do all that," said Alex, taking up the explanations once more, "we need vehicles. Fast. Adaptable. Robust. Well armed."

"And you need a mechanic to fix 'em," Buddy guessed.

"And design them," said Matt with a small smile.

Buddy looked from Matt to Alex and back again. This either had to be the most elaborate joke in history, or they were serious. Buddy wasn't sure what he wanted to hope for at this point. "Lemme see if I've got this straight," he said finally. "You're unofficially setting up a task force to take on a bunch of terrorists. And you want me to design your transportation."

"That's about the size of it," said Matt.

"This is the dumbest bunch of bullshit I've been fed. Period."

"It's a little strange," Alex agreed, "but it's not bullshit."

"It's not that," said Buddy. "I think I can sorta believe all that stuff about terrorists."

"Then what?"

"You want a seventeen year old kid with no qualifications and a criminal record that probably runs from here to New York to design your transportation?"

Matt smiled. "Buddy, I hire the best. You're it."

* * *

To Be Continued 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Kenner and a bunch of animation studios. All I own is the situation, plot and backstory.

With many thanks to Tnonsum, Angel, Ganeris and Freespirit127 for editing, feedback and patient hand holding.

* * *

The Coming Storm

Two

Buddy lay in bed, eyes shut. He could feel sunlight on his face, which suggested it was morning, but opening his eyes would probably reveal the fact that the whole of the day before had been one very long and seriously whacked out dream. _It can't have been real,_ he thought. _I'm gonna open my eyes and either be back in the home, or in jail._ And the stupid thing was, he didn't want to feel the disappointment of knowing it had all been a delusion. The idea of someone actually believing in him, of someone actually wanting him, felt so good it couldn't possibly be real.

There was a knock on a door, then, "Buddy?"

Fuzzily, Buddy recognised that voice wasn't Chris or Ben from the home. In fact, it sounded suspiciously female. The only woman who'd be interested in whether or not he was getting up was Vanessa, and the voice definitely wasn't hers. It was too high and sweet.

_Unless I wasn't dreaming, and yesterday really did happen,_ Buddy realised. He opened his eyes, and sure enough, it was the pale blue-painted bedroom that Sarah had shown him the day before.

Sarah?

_Shit!_ Buddy sat up and tried to get out of bed, but only succeeded in tying himself up in the blankets and landing on the floor with a thud.

"Buddy? Are you all right?" Sarah called.

Buddy sighed. "Yeah." That would teach him to panic. He unwrapped himself from the blankets and managed to get to his feet. Grabbing a pair of threadbare sweatpants from the small pile of clothing he'd tipped out of the duffel bag, he hauled them on and headed for the door.

Opening it, he found Sarah standing on the landing, a brown-haired and chuckling baby in her arms.

"Good morning," she said. "Did you sleep all right?"

Buddy blinked, trying to drag his thoughts into some kind of coherence, particularly as he found himself the focus of the baby's attention. "Uh, yes. Thanks."

Sarah grinned. "This," she said, "is Scott."

"Uh, hi?"

It seemed to be the appropriate response as Scott gave him a big beaming smile then turned his head towards Sarah's shoulder and gurgled something.

"Matt says he'll be ready to go in an hour; is that all right with you?"

For a second, Buddy was puzzled by the question. Then he remembered. The 'day' job at Boulder Hill Gas Station that he was supposed to be starting today. "Uh, yeah." He mustered a smile. "I'll be ready."

"I'm sure you will." Sarah glanced at Scott. "OK. Time this monster got his breakfast. When you're ready, just come down to the dining room – breakfast isn't a formal meal in this family."

With that, Sarah turned and headed back down the stairs. Buddy watched her leave. Over her shoulder, Scott peered up at him; then waved. Self-consciously, Buddy waved back, provoking a chuckle from Scott. Then both Scott and Sarah were lost to his view. _Guess I'd better get dressed,_ he decided.

* * *

Forty-five minutes and two wrong turns later, Buddy reached the dining room, where Matt was reading the business pages of the New York Times and sipping a cup of coffee. He looked up as Buddy entered.

"All set?" Matt asked.

Buddy smiled tentatively. "I think so."

Matt grinned. "You'll be fine." He folded the newspaper up and dropped it onto the table. "If you're ready, though, we might as well go."

"OK."

Matt stood up just as Sarah, without Scott this time, appeared in the dining room. "You're going?" she asked.

"I have a meeting in Denver this morning," Matt replied. "So the sooner we leave, the better."

"I don't want to be any trouble," Buddy began.

"You're not being," said Matt. "The gas station's on my way into Denver. Besides, I should probably introduce you to Earl and Cassidy."

Buddy wondered who they would prove to be.

"So we'll see you later," Matt finished, giving Sarah a smile.

"All right." She kissed Matt. "See you later." Then she smiled at Buddy. "Good luck."

* * *

It was a short journey from the mansion to the gas station, though it did cross Buddy's mind to wonder just how he was going to return to the mansion that evening.

As if reading his thoughts, Matt said, "Cassidy will be able to give you a lift home tonight; but she doesn't work every day, so that's not a long-term solution."

"I can walk," Buddy offered. "It isn't far."

Matt grinned as he pulled the Camaro onto the gas station's forecourt. "See what you think of that idea after you've finished your first day."

Buddy decided that sounded ominous, but he had no chance to think about it any further as a man who could have been Mac's double came out of the shop.

"Mr Trakker; good to see you."

"Morning, Earl," Matt answered. "I've found you a new mechanic."

"Have you?"

And suddenly, Buddy felt nervous. Earl sounded at once dubious and unfriendly, though, to judge from Matt's smile, Matt saw nothing wrong with the tone.

"Mac Stevens recommended him," Matt continued. "His name's Buddy Hawks."

Earl just lifted an eyebrow. "I haven't forgotten the last joker Mac recommended."

Buddy gulped. That really did sound ominous. To his surprise, Matt laughed. "I can promise you, Buddy's a little better than that."

Then Earl smiled and Buddy guessed that whatever it was, it had been a private joke between Earl and Matt. "We'll see," he said. Then to Buddy: "You ain't gonna change any oil just sitting in Mr Trakker's fancy ride."

Nervously, Buddy scrambled out the car and found himself being scrutinised by Earl's steady glare. Whatever test it was, he guessed he passed it when Earl nodded.

"You'll do," he pronounced. To Matt, he said, "Cassidy's in the office, if you need to see her."

Matt got out of the car. "Thanks; I'll do that. See you later, Buddy."

Buddy watched Matt cross the forecourt.

"All right, kid," said Earl, bringing Buddy's attention to the older man. "Let's get you started. We got a full schedule of services and inspections today. Since you can't do the inspections---"

"I know what to do," Buddy cut in.

"Maybe you do," said Earl sternly. "But you don't have a piece of paper from the state saying you can. Right?" Silently Buddy nodded. "Then you don't do any of the inspections, which means the services are all yours. Anything you don't know, you ask. Got me?" Buddy nodded. "All right. First service of the day's a '69 Chevy. Think you can deal?"

"Easy."

Earl grinned, at once looking far more friendly than he'd done at any other time so far. "All right, then, kid; get to work."

* * *

Buddy soon found Earl hadn't been exaggerating. No sooner had he finished one car than the next one arrived, and each one needed something slightly different. Then there was the unfamiliarity of the garage. He found that he was wasting quite a bit of time either asking Earl where tools were, or looking for them himself.

Although, as he lay on the board, trying to undo an oil pan plug that looked as if it might just have been fitted by Henry Ford himself, he reflected that he was probably not doing too badly. It had taken him several days to get the hang of Mac's rather eccentrically laid out shop and yet here, he could almost see the logic of Earl's methods.

The wrench slipped and Buddy scraped his knuckles against the underside of the car. "Son of a---" He sucked the abused knuckles, mentally ran through an extensive list of profanity and glared at the bolt. Who got their car serviced so infrequently that the oil pan plug was rusted in place?

He lifted the wrench, intending to make another attack on it. As he did so, he heard the unmistakable tap-tap of footsteps as someone entered the garage. Awkwardly, Buddy twisted, trying to see who it was, but from his vantage point, all he could see was a pair of very feminine heeled-boots.

"Can I help you?" he called.

The owner of the boots chuckled. "Got a question for you," she said, her voice low and husky. "Do mechanics on their first day get to break for lunch?"

Buddy jumped, and promptly cracked his head on the underside of the car. "Ow."

"Oh, jeeze; Buddy – you dumbass!" Buddy slid out from beneath the car in time to see the speaker, a petite young woman with fiery red hair, shake her head. "Your head's a hell of a lot softer than the underside of a car."

"I know that, Vanessa." Buddy sat up, a rueful smile on his face as he rubbed the bump. "On the other hand, if folks didn't scare me half to death, I wouldn't have head-butted half so many cars." He stood up and went to hug her. "I wasn't sure if you'd get my message."

"Uh-uh!" Vanessa fended him off. "You're covered in grease and I just got this jacket clean from the last time you slimed me!"

"Aw, c'mon." Buddy grinned all the same. Vanessa just looked at him. "I'll pay to get it cleaned, later."

"That'll be a first." But she finally submitted to being hugged and, for all her complaints, returned the hug enthusiastically. "I about kicked Rax's ass when he told me what happened on Tuesday," she murmured.

"It could have been better," Buddy agreed. "But it didn't turn out so bad in the end."

Vanessa let go of him and stepped back. "I couldn't believe it when Mac told me you'd gotten a job. But here you are – up to your neck in grease." She smiled. "You're like a cat; you know that?"

"What; I have nine lives?" Buddy joked.

"No; you land on your feet," Vanessa corrected. "Guess this means you're going respectable, huh?"

"I'm gonna give it a try." He smiled lopsidedly. "Can't keep doin' what I was doin'."

Vanessa nodded, but though she smiled, Buddy could see it was forced.

"What about you?" he asked.

"What d'you mean?"

Absently, Buddy started wiping his hands on an oily rag. "What're you planning on doing?"

"I haven't given it any thought," said Vanessa lightly. Too lightly for Buddy to entirely buy it.

"Bullshit," he said bluntly. "Look; Mac thinks you're in trouble---"

"Oh, Mac's been speaking to you, huh?" Vanessa's voice was suddenly flint-hard. "Mac doesn't know as much as he thinks."

"And maybe you don't know as much as you think, either," Buddy replied, looking up from his hands. "Vanessa, Rax set me up on Tuesday night."

"What?" Vanessa stared, incredulous. "Why the hell would he do that?"

"I never said it made sense." Buddy shrugged. "But I had a hell of a long time to think about it, Tuesday night. 'Fact, there wasn't really much else I could do, 'cept think."

"You've got it wrong." But Vanessa didn't sound as certain as perhaps she'd have liked.

"A-hem."

The cough was pointed and came from the garage doorway. Buddy looked round and saw Earl frowning at him.

"Is Miss McLaren's oil change done?" Earl asked.

"Uh---" Buddy glanced back at the car he'd been working on. "Not yet."

"Then maybe you should get on with that, instead of arguing with your girlfriend," said Earl.

"Oh, I'm not his girlfriend," said Vanessa, as at the same moment, Buddy said, "Vanessa's not my girlfriend." They exchanged a glance, and Buddy added, "She's my sister."

Earl just gave them both a look. "Whatever." He turned to leave the garage again. "When you're done on Miss McLaren's car, get yourself some lunch. I don't want you passin' out."

Buddy waited until he was sure Earl was out of earshot. "Guess that answers your question."

"Huh?" Vanessa frowned. "What question?"

Buddy sat down on the board again and prepared to make another attack on the oil pan plug. "About whether I get lunch. Apparently, I do." He slid back under the car. "Though I don't know where I'd get anything around here."

"I drove up here," said Vanessa, moving to lean against one of the workbenches. "If you promise not to lecture me about Rax, I promise to take you some place for lunch."

Beneath the car, Buddy grimaced. This was what happened every time they ever tried to talk about Rax. They'd start to argue, then Vanessa would make him promise to drop the subject, and he'd agree to it. He sighed. "All right."

"Look; I'm not six any more," said Vanessa. "I can look after myself."

"C'mere, you little---" Buddy put as much force as he could muster into turning the wrench and was finally rewarded by the plug moving. "I know you can; I just---" He sighed as the oil started to empty out of the pan. "I just don't think everything's OK with Rax. Something's up."

"You don't like him," Vanessa observed.

"After Tuesday night, can you blame me?"

"Yeah, actually," came the answer.

"Oh, here we go." Buddy groaned. "I knew there'd be someway Tuesday was my fault."

"Buddy; how dumb do you have to be to go along with one of Rax's schemes?"

"I never claimed to be smart."

Vanessa snorted. "And you're not that dumb."

Buddy scooted out from under the car, plug in hand. "You go along with his schemes," he pointed out, starting to scrape the accumulated grunge and grease off the plug.

"Not that sort of scheme I don't," said Vanessa. "Besides," she added, "armed robbery? That's just not you." She snorted again. "In all the time I've known you, you've only gone after three people, and all three of them were hittin' on me."

Buddy had no answer to that. "You would tell me; if you were in trouble? Wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would. Haven't I always?" Vanessa answered. "You're my big brother and you always will be." She smiled. "Nothing's gonna change that."

Buddy smiled. "All right, then." The plug now clean, he sat back down on the board, intending to replace it.

"Oh, hey, wait a sec." Buddy looked up to see Vanessa suddenly, and frantically, patting her jacket pockets. "I got something for you." She frowned. "Damnit; where'd I put it?"

"In your car?" Buddy suggested helpfully.

"No--- Ah!" Vanessa finally extracted a small package from an inner jacket pocket. "Here." She handed it over. "It's kinda a congratulations thing."

Bemused, Buddy accepted the parcel and opened it. Inside was a red cloth cap.

"I figured, when Mac told me what you were doing, it'd be useful," Vanessa explained. "Keep the oil and shit out of your hair."

Buddy grinned and firmly rammed the cap down, over his hair. "Thanks; it's perfect."

"Now how 'bout you finish this oil change? I'm starving."

Buddy lay back on the board and slid beneath the car again. "You and me both."

* * *

The oil change only took another fifteen minutes to complete, then Vanessa, complaining bitterly that he was going to get oil on her car's upholstery, drove Buddy up to a small roadside diner a mile further along the road.

"I don't know why you're complaining," Buddy commented as they reached the diner. "Your car's a museum piece anyway."

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "It's not that old." Buddy just grinned. "Anyway; you oughta have coveralls or something. Didn't Mac loan you some?"

"I grew out of 'em." Buddy shrugged as they entered the diner. "Besides, all my clothes are covered in grease anyway."

Vanessa snorted. "That's no excuse." To the diner waitress, she said, "Two BLTs and two sodas."

"Coming up," said the waitress with a small grimace at Buddy's oil stained clothing.

Once she was out of earshot, Vanessa said, "See? It's not just me."

Buddy groaned. "Jeeze, what are you? My mom or something?"

Vanessa grinned. "Just your little sister who's embarrassed to be seen out with you."

Buddy rolled his eyes and groaned again. "All right, already. I'll spend my paycheck on clothes. Satisfied?"

"Maybe," Vanessa replied, smiling a little.

Buddy recognised the expression on her face. "All right; what? What do you want me to do?"

"Take me with you?"

The waitress delivered the two sandwiches and the two glasses of soda at that moment, so Buddy waited until she was once more out of earshot before he asked, "Why?"

Vanessa smiled innocently. "Because I've always wanted to be taken shopping by a guy with money?" Buddy just looked at her. "All right; I wanna razz you over your taste in shirts."

Buddy groaned again. "Why do I put up with this?"

"Because I'm your sister, and you love me for it," Vanessa answered. "And because I've bought you lunch."

Buddy picked up his sandwich. "When you put it that way; I guess I don't have a choice."

Vanessa grinned. "Nope."

* * *

After lunch, Vanessa took Buddy back to the gas station and then headed off on her own concerns. But if Buddy had thought the afternoon would give him a chance to think about everything she'd said and, more importantly, what she'd not said, he was sorely mistaken.

If possible, the afternoon was even busier than the morning. He lost count of the number of cars he worked on and by the time six o'clock rolled around, his knuckles were scraped bare from constantly bashing them against sections of engine. Still, as he finally tightened the last nut on the final car of the day, he decided it could have definitely been a worse start.

"Good job, kid," Earl observed as Buddy slid out from beneath the car. "You did good."

"Thanks." Buddy smiled.

"Tomorrow, I'll show you how to close up; tonight, Cassidy's itching to get going."

"If--- Are---"

Earl just thumbed in the direction of the garage door. "Get," he said, a smile on his face. "See you tomorrow, kid."

And that seemed to be Earl's last word on the matter, as the older man started putting away the tools. Given no other alternative, Buddy wiped his hands on an oily rag and made his way out of the garage and into the evening sunlight.

"Hey; kid!" The shout, paired by a piercing whistle, directed Buddy's attention to a truck, parked up on the edge of the forecourt with its engine running. Seated inside it was a woman who looked about the same age as Matt, with mousy brown hair and wrap-around sunglasses. Seeing she had his attention, she waved him over. "I'll give you a ride, kid."

Buddy realised this must be Cassidy. He wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting her to look like, all he knew was this wasn't it! The one thing that was obvious was that she was impatient to get going. Hurriedly, he crossed the forecourt, not wanting to annoy her any further.

"Thanks---" he began.

Cassidy cut him off. "I drive past the place anyway," she said. "Hop in and let's get going." Then she smiled. "Sorry; I just have to get home quick tonight."

"I can---"

"Get. In," Cassidy insisted.

Meekly, Buddy did as he was told.

"Better," Cassidy remarked, pulling away from the gas station with a rubber-burning tyre squeal. "First rule of working at Boulder Hill Gas Station: Don't argue with Cassidy."

Buddy decided the safest response to that was no response. Instead, he concentrated on not getting thrown out of his seat as Cassidy hurled her truck round the hairpin bends in the road that led back towards the mansion. _She'd get on great with Vanessa,_ he decided as they screeched round another bend with the truck coming perilously close to rolling. _They're both nuts when it comes to speed!_

After one final turn, when Buddy was convinced the truck took it only on two wheels, he was more than relieved to see the gateway of the mansion coming up fast on the left-hand side of the road. Cassidy screeched to a halt right outside the gate.

"You don't mind if I just drop you here?" she asked.

"Uh, no." Buddy wasn't sure he ever wanted to be in another vehicle Cassidy was driving, ever. "Thanks."

"De nada," said Cassidy. "See you next week."

Buddy slid out of the truck, and no sooner had he closed the passenger door than Cassidy was off with another squeal of tyres and a spray of dust and gravel.

Buddy slowly shook his head as he crossed the road and entered the mansion's gates. _She's nuts – I hope I don't have to catch another ride with her._ He walked slowly up the drive, enjoying the chance to stretch after spending so much of the day in various awkward positions. A shower was going to feel extremely good, and maybe twelve hours of sleep, too.

As he neared the mansion's main entrance, Sarah, with Scott firmly strapped into a stroller, appeared through one of the side doors.

"Buddy; how'd it go?" she asked.

Vaguely, Buddy realised he was actually too tired to feel nervous in her presence as he answered, "Good, thanks."

Sarah grinned. "Good. This monster," and she waved a hand at the grinning Scott, "has decided he's not tired, so I'm going to see what a little fresh air will do for him. Dinner will be at eight o'clock tonight, if you want to join us?"

Buddy's stomach chose that moment to growl, loudly. He blushed. "Uh, maybe not."

Sarah smiled. "No problem." She turned the stroller and started along a path that suggested it might lead round to the back of the mansion. "See you later," she called.

Buddy nodded and made his way into the mansion and up to the small apartment.

* * *

While a frozen pizza cooked in the tiny kitchen's oven, Buddy showered and tried to wash off as much of the accumulated grease as was possible. Unfortunately, by the time the oven's timer started bleeping, indicating the pizza was cooked, all he'd really succeeded in doing was turning his hands a more uniform grey colour. _So I need to buy some grease remover,_ he reflected, hastily pulling on the threadbare sweat pants and rescuing the pizza before it turned to a cinder. _Maybe I should get that before I meet up with Vanessa. She'll only tell me she told me so._

Despite his better efforts, though, the pizza was still on the charred side. _Guess the oven cooks hotter than it says,_ Buddy decided, making a mental note to use a slightly lower setting next time. For all that it was burnt, though, the pizza still tasted good, and at least it stopped his stomach from making him sound like he hadn't eaten all day!

Once he'd finished eating, Buddy cleaned up the kitchen, then wondered what he ought to do for the rest of the evening. He almost felt tired enough to just go straight to bed, but he vaguely felt as if he ought to do something constructive towards that 'other' side to his employment. The difficulty was knowing quite what and just where he ought to start. Sure, he'd designed vehicles before, but generally, he knew exactly what the vehicle was to be used for. This felt extremely vague.

Restless, Buddy started to explore the apartment, as if seeking inspiration. The bedroom closets revealed nothing but a few wire hangers and a lost lady's shoe that he guessed had probably belonged to the previous occupant of the apartment. The kitchen cupboards revealed a coffee percolator and all the paraphernalia necessary for brewing coffee. That, at least, looked useful.

Pulling all the bits out, Buddy set about brewing a pot of coffee. Then he turned his attention from the kitchen to that wide desk. It was an old fashioned looking piece of furniture, with drawers on both sides, most of which were empty, but the largest of them, which ran the entire width of the desk, was full of stationery supplies, including a huge stack of construction paper. _Useful,_ he decided.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Buddy turned to face it just as Matt entered.

"Hi," said Matt. "Are you busy?"

Buddy glanced at the paper. "Not really."

Matt smiled. "Good; follow me."

Bemused, Buddy duly followed Matt out of the apartment, down the stairs and then through the doorway immediately next to the foot of the stairs. To Buddy's surprise, on the other side of the door was yet more stairs. These led down and Buddy guessed they were going to ultimately come out in one of the mansion's basements. Why was Matt taking him down here?

Then they reached the bottom of the stairs and Buddy found his answer: The stairs led to a subterranean parking garage of cavernous proportions. There were only three vehicles parked up. One was the Camaro, parked on the left hand side of the garage. Beside it was a powder-blue '57 Chevy that looked as if it had probably seen better days, while on the right of the garage was a non-descript pick-up truck that looked as if it was more rust than truck.

It was the truck that Matt led Buddy towards.

"She doesn't look much," Matt admitted, "and she probably isn't up to much, either, but she goes, she's street-legal and she'd get you from here to the gas station and back. What do you think?"

Buddy blinked. Was Matt actually offering him the use of the truck? "I---"

"You could look at it as a project," Matt continued, smiling. "Both Mac and Earl agree that the chassis is sound, so with a little work---" Matt spread his hands wide.

Now Buddy recognised it. "This is Mac's; isn't it?"

"Well it was at the back of Mac's lot," Matt agreed. "I'm not sure it was exactly his."

Buddy grinned a little. "He told me he won it in a poker game."

Matt tipped his head back and laughed. "That sounds like Mac."

Buddy shot him a curious look. "I guess you know him pretty well."

"I should do," Matt admitted. "Andy and I were probably some of the first kids he took in and kept out of trouble, and I've stayed in touch."

"He told you about me," Buddy realised.

"I mentioned I was looking for a good, inventive mechanic," said Matt. "He mentioned you." Buddy wasn't quite sure what to think about such a bald admission. "Not that he was telling me anything new; I'm involved with the racer competition."

"Oh."

Matt gave him a look. "Anyone who can design a car fast enough to beat all course records for that competition and build it out of scrap has a special talent. Be proud of it." He reached out and patted the truck. "So what do you think; think this would work out?"

Buddy gave the truck another look. It would need a complete bodywork overhaul and a re-spray and he doubted the engine would run to his standards, but it had promise. "Yeah; I think it might."

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Kenner and a bunch of animation studios. All I own is the situation, plot and backstory.

With many thanks to Tnonsum, Angel, Ganeris and Freespirit127 for editing, feedback and patient hand holding.

* * *

The Coming Storm

Three

Life settled into a routine, as far as Buddy was concerned. During the week, he worked at the gas station, both learning the ropes of the garage and also working on the state's requirements for inspection certification. As Earl had put it: "You're bright enough; no sense you not doing it."

At the weekend, all of Buddy's spare time was taken up renovating the truck, which he'd taken to calling Firecracker for its somewhat erratic behaviour – sometimes, it would start with no bother; other times, it produced all kind of fireworks! As Matt had said, the chassis was sound, but everything else, from brakes to steering to the transmission system to the wiring, needed work – and that was before even thinking about the bodywork. But it was a challenge and it was one that Buddy enjoyed.

Then in the evenings, after dinner, Buddy worked on vehicle design. It still felt like a vague project, but a conversation with Matt had helped considerably.

"Look at it this way," Matt had said. "MASK isn't, can't, be a huge organisation. There's no way for Duane Kennedy to finesse the funding for that." Buddy had nodded slowly. "So whatever we do needs to count for double."

Buddy nodded slowly again. "I think I get that."

"Lemme show you something," said Matt with a faint, almost pained, smile.

Bemused, Buddy once more followed Matt down to the parking garage. This time, though, the older man led Buddy towards the Camaro.

"What do you see?" Matt asked, waving a hand towards the vehicle.

"It's a car," Buddy answered, frowning.

"Yes and no," said Matt. "I told you, first day, there was more to her than just what you can see." He unlocked the Camaro and gestured to Buddy to get in. "Let me show you."

Buddy did as he was asked, and a few moments later, they were speeding along the twisting mountain road that led down into Boulder. It wasn't quite as unnerving as Cassidy's driving, but it did make him wonder exactly what it was that Matt was intending to show him; he already knew the Camaro had good suspension and great road holding – he didn't need it demonstrating in person!

Then, so far as Buddy was concerned, things took a turn for the worse. Rounding one particular bend, they found themselves at the top of a short piece of straight road that terminated with a hairpin bend so tight that the road appeared to just stop with a crash-barrier. And, to Buddy's complete horror, Matt speeded up.

There was no way, even allowing for the Camaro's superb handling, that they were going to be able to make that turn, but Buddy couldn't force an objection out around the sheer terror and panic now filling his mind.

The barrier hurtled towards them. Buddy closed his eyes and just waited for the crash. But it never came. Instead, there was a sudden roar of turbos, a whistle of wind, and then he found himself being slapped back against his seat.

"It's OK; you can look," said Matt, amusement all too audible in his voice.

Buddy risked opening his eyes, still half expecting to see them plummeting towards the canyon floor. He soon wished he hadn't. They weren't plummeting. Through the now open door, he could see the canyon road several hundred feet below, twisting like a piece of string through mountains that looked barely bigger than hills.

"The car is flying," he said flatly, at once aware of just how absurd that statement was.

"Yup," said Matt.

"This isn't possible." Buddy closed his eyes again. "I'm hallucinating. Or dead. Or---"

"Or Thunderhawk really does fly and neither of us have gone nuts," Matt finished, still amused.

Buddy opened his eyes and turned to look at Matt. "Why?"

"How many places can a car get that a plane can't?" Matt pushed the car, Thunderhawk, into a steep dive, once more flattening Buddy back against his seat. "How many places can a plane get that a car can't?"

Buddy gripped the edge of his seat. "I see." The flight levelled out as Matt sent Thunderhawk twisting and turning through the canyon. "Please don't do that again!"

Matt chuckled, landed Thunderhawk on the canyon's floor and shut off the engines. "It takes a bit of getting used to."

"I don't think I'd ever be 'used' to that," Buddy muttered. "It takes a special kind of idiot to fly anything like that. No offence."

"None taken." Matt pushed a button on the dashboard and the gull-wing doors slowly lowered back to a 'closed' position, returning Thunderhawk to its more normal appearance. "So what do you think?"

"One of us is insane," said Buddy. "I'm just not sure which one." Matt tipped his head back and laughed. "But I get what you're talking about now, though, I'm not sure I'm going to be much of a test pilot," he admitted ruefully.

"That's OK," said Matt, starting Thunderhawk's engine again and pulling the car up onto the canyon-bottom road. "We can cover that."

"All right, then." Buddy smiled, and tried not to grip the edge of his seat as Matt started to speed up and out of the canyon the conventional way this time. "You tell me what you want the vehicles to do and I can design them."

That night, after dinner, Buddy started work on a combined motorcycle/helicopter, which could be used for advanced scouting.

* * *

Two weeks, to the day, after starting at Boulder Hill Gas Station, Buddy was working on the transmission of an elderly Buick when Cassidy walked into the garage, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the concrete floor. 

"Hey kid," she called.

Buddy slid out from under the Buick and pushed his cap back from his eyes. "Cassidy?"

She grinned down at him and held out a small brown envelope. "Congrats, kid; you've reached your first paycheck."

Sitting up, Buddy took the envelope from her and looked at it for a moment. Two weeks. A real paycheck. Not for the first time since meeting Matt, Buddy half wondered if he was about to wake up and find himself back in jail.

"Aren't you gonna open it?" Cassidy asked, amusement lighting her face.

Buddy looked at the envelope again. He was being dumb; it wasn't going to magically evaporate the moment he opened it. "Over lunch." He stuffed the envelope into his back pocket and lay back down on the board, preparing to get back to work.

Cassidy laughed. "Suit yourself." She turned to walk out, then stopped. "Oh, by the way; your sister called earlier."

Buddy froze. It was the first time Vanessa had been in touch since his first day, and Cassidy didn't exactly sound pleased. "Uh, sorry?"

"Matt said she'd probably be in touch through this place, at least to start; don't worry about it, kid." Cassidy grinned. "She just managed to call right in the middle of me running payroll."

Buddy managed a weak grin in response. "Her timing sucks sometimes."

"Big time," Cassidy agreed. "Anyway; she figured today was pay day, so she was calling to remind you about your plans after work." Cassidy grinned. "Hope you know what she means cuz that's all she said."

"I know what she means." This time, Buddy's grin was firmer. "Thanks Cassidy."

"De nada." Cassidy turned away again and headed out of the garage.

Buddy slid back under the Buick, a grin still on his face. When Earl came back from Moses Abrahams' motor parts store, he'd have to see if he could get off a little early; just this once.

* * *

Earl had been surprisingly compliant with Buddy's request to leave early, even going so far as to suggest he headed off at lunchtime to make it a full half-day off. When Buddy had questioned it, Earl had simply grinned. "It's your first pay day; I figure you got some plans. Just don't expect this every time you get paid." 

So just after lunch, and after calling ahead to warn her of his arrival, Buddy was able to head over to Rax's apartment to pick Vanessa up. She was waiting on the sidewalk when he arrived and, to judge from her expression, she wasn't remotely impressed with Firecracker.

"And you have the nerve to call **my** car a museum piece!" she exclaimed.

Buddy just grinned. "I'm working on it."

Vanessa snorted as she gingerly climbed into the truck's cab. "I'd have to hope you were." She carefully closed the door behind her. "Is it safe?"

"Brakes all work and the steering's fine – now at least," Buddy answered, putting the truck into gear and pulling away from the sidewalk. "Believe me, I don't have a death wish any more than you do."

Vanessa snorted again. "You got a certificate to prove that?"

"Well you got in," Buddy said reasonably. "You didn't have to."

Vanessa snorted a third time. "So where are we going shopping?"

"Downtown," Buddy answered. "I know you're not supposed to go anywhere near the Crossfields Mall."

"Like that stops me."

"Right, but since neither of us is dressed for that," and here, Buddy grinned, "we're going downtown."

"You're no fun; you know that?" But Vanessa sounded amused. "Are you planning on keeping in practice, now you're going all respectable?"

"I don't know." Buddy paused to concentrate on driving for a moment as they passed through two complex intersections. Once the second one was behind them, he added, "Pretending to be someone else's fun and all, but I don't know how much chance I'll get to do it now."

"Well at least think about keeping it up," Vanessa urged. "I didn't spend all that time teaching you how to do it for nothing!"

Buddy laughed. "Guess not."

"'Sides, how do you know what you'll need in the future?" she added.

"There is that," Buddy admitted. He shook his head. "I hate it when you do that."

"What?"

"When you're right." He glanced at her and grinned. "It's way too annoying."

It was Vanessa's turn to laugh.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Buddy was fairly sure that he had never been in quite so many shops in his entire life, and he had bags from most of them. 

First had been the day-to-day necessities, like underwear and socks, which Buddy had been dreading buying with Vanessa present. She hadn't let him down, either; when the shop assistant had asked if he needed any help, Vanessa had responded in the positive and added, "He tried going commando, but it chafed!"

From there, they moved on to shirts, sweaters and jeans. Buddy had never owned all that much in the way of clothing; as far as he was concerned, clothing was just something to wear to stop you getting either frostbite or sunburn, and to prevent arrest, not that the latter worried him all that much. Most of what he had owned had come from Good Will or thrift stores, where you made do with the sizes you found. As a consequence, he had no real idea of what size to buy.

"How can you not know what size you are?" Vanessa had demanded, rolling her eyes.

Buddy had just shrugged. "If it fits, it's my size."

With a toss of her red hair, Vanessa had set to work, picking out items of clothing that she thought might be the right size. Then, when Buddy's arms were full, she dispatched him to the changing rooms to try things on.

"Knew I should have just gone to Good Will," Buddy had mumbled at the third trip to the changing rooms.

"Sooner or later, you'll have to own some grown-up clothes," Vanessa had retorted. "Ones that don't have holes in and don't look like someone's already tossed them out."

_Can we make it later?_ Buddy had wondered, but he had wisely not voiced the question and, instead, had simply submitted to the third round of trying on.

By the time the process was finished, they had picked out a stack of t-shirts, button-down shirts and sweaters in various colours as well as several pairs of jeans and one pair of dress slacks.

"What do I want them for?" Buddy had demanded.

"You never know," Vanessa had replied. "You might want to go for a job interview, or take a girl out to dinner, or something." She shrugged.

Buddy couldn't imagine finding a girl willing to put up with him, much less taking her out to dinner!

"Trust me," Vanessa had added, "once you actually look like you might be a member of the human race, you'll be fighting the girls off."

"Yeah, right," Buddy had snorted.

He had given in, though, and the slacks had joined everything else being rung up by an all too amused shop assistant. The total, just over three hundred dollars, made Vanessa wince and Buddy pale, even despite knowing he could more than cover the cost. He'd never had that much money in his life, much less spent it in one go!

Once they'd finished in that store, Buddy had found himself being all but propelled into the nearest men's room by Vanessa.

"You now have jeans that aren't covered in grease and that don't have more holes than Swiss cheese," she had said sternly. "Go change."

And Buddy had, if only to stop Vanessa's complaints – though he did have to admit, it was a nice experience to pull on clothes that weren't either stiff with grease, or full of holes, or both.

"Better," Vanessa had remarked with a grin when he returned, dressed in new jeans and a new shirt. "But we need to fix your sneakers."

Buddy had looked down at his feet and regarded his sneakers for a moment. "What's wrong with my sneakers?"

Vanessa had just given him a look and more or less dragged him to the nearest Footlocker.

Footlocker provided a new pair of sneakers, while another store yielded a pair of dress shoes – "You can't wear sneakers with slacks," Vanessa had insisted – and a pair of tough work boots, and third store produced the much-needed coveralls – "No point getting your new stuff grungy," Vanessa had pointed out.

After a quick trip back to the truck to offload the bags, they then made for Barnes and Noble.

"What do you want in here?" Vanessa asked, a little bemused.

Buddy smiled lopsidedly. "Books?" he suggested.

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Wiseass," she muttered. "What kind of books?"

Buddy came to a halt in front of the engineering books and started scanning the shelves. "Books," he replied vaguely.

"And maybe if you told me what you were looking for, I could help you look," said Vanessa acerbically.

Buddy paused and gave Vanessa a sheepish look. "Sorry."

"So?" Vanessa prompted with a wave of her hand. "What'm I looking for?"

"It's gonna sound weird."

"You taught yourself to read with the manual for a '55 Chevy," said Vanessa. "Nothing is going to surprise me."

"OK, then. Books on aircraft design," said Buddy.

"Bored with designing cars?" Vanessa asked, an eyebrow lifting.

"Just want a new challenge," Buddy replied, feeling a little guilty for the lie. "Said it was weird."

Vanessa snorted and started scanning the shelves. "Weird would be you wanting the newest Harlequin Romance," she said. "Here," she added, "how 'bout this one?" And she pulled a book entitled _The Mechanics of Flight_ from the shelf.

Buddy flipped through the book and nodded. "Good place to start."

Between them, they found a couple of other books, including one filled with projects intended for engineering students to undertake.

"You realise you're gonna need math for this?" Vanessa asked.

Buddy shrugged. "I'll figure it out."

Vanessa just shook her head. "You're crazy."

"Probably," Buddy agreed. "But you love me anyway."

"Goofball," said Vanessa, smiling all the same. "C'mon. Let's get checked out – unless you **do** want the latest Harlequin Romance?"

Buddy stuck his tongue out at Vanessa. "When we're done here, do you want to grab some early dinner?"

"Sure. You're buying?"

"Of course." Buddy grinned. "Lemme get these books."

Vanessa winced once more as the total came in just under two hundred dollars. Buddy just shrugged; he was beginning to feel a little inured to the shock of spending that much money. As they left the store, Vanessa said,

"Just how much did you get paid, anyway?"

"Uh, nearly nine hundred dollars," Buddy answered, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Vanessa whistled. "Just for being up to your neck in grease?" She shook her head. "Jeez; I think I'm in the wrong line of work."

Buddy stopped dead. "You got a job?"

Now it was Vanessa's turn to look self-conscious. "Uh, yeah."

"You didn't tell me!" Buddy felt mildly hurt.

"Well, I only really knew I got it yesterday so, and I'm telling you now," Vanessa added defensively. "And I was gonna tell you over dinner."

"Sorry." Buddy smiled. "So what're you doing?"

"Uh, troubleshooting, you might call it," Vanessa answered.

Buddy opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but at that moment a new voice broke in, "Buddy?"

Spinning round, Buddy found himself looking at Sarah who was regarding him quizzically. "Uh, hi!"

"Earl said you'd taken off early today," Sarah continued, smiling. "Pay day, huh?"

"Yeah." Buddy rubbed the back of his neck in a sheepish gesture. "Kinda needed to get some stuff."

"I see. You must be Vanessa," she added, smiling in Vanessa's direction. "Pleased to meet you."

For the first time in Buddy's life, he realised Vanessa was completely lost for words. "Uh, this is Sarah Trakker," he explained.

"Hi," Vanessa murmured shyly.

Buddy blinked. He hadn't thought it was possible for Vanessa to be shy. Apparently, he was wrong.

Sarah, for her part, smiled again. "Buddy's told me a lot about you, so it's nice to finally meet you. I'd love to stay and chat," she continued, "but I need to pick up my cleaning before the cleaners shut. I'll see you later, Buddy."

And with that, Sarah departed rapidly.

"Who," began Vanessa once Sarah was out of earshot, "is Sarah Trakker?"

"Uh, well." Buddy rubbed the back of his neck again. "The guy I'm working for, the guy I was paroled to, is Matt Trakker, and Sarah is his wife."

"Matt Trakker?" Vanessa stared a moment, then started to laugh. "I was right; you are like a damn cat, Buddy."

Buddy grinned. "Yeah, I guess I am." They started walking again. "So, dinner now?"

"Sure---" Vanessa stopped. "Wait. One more stop before dinner."

"Where?"

"In here." And Buddy found himself being literally dragged into the theatrical supplies store they had stopped outside of.

"What?" Buddy blinked. "What are we doing in here?"

Vanessa smiled. "Remember what we were talking about on the way down here?"

Buddy blinked again. "Uh, what?"

Lowering her voice and leading Buddy in the direction of the make-up department, Vanessa said, "Look; you've got a talent for acting and impersonation, Buddy. I know that you're doing OK right now. Better than OK, in fact. But who says that's gonna last? And, y'know, you never know when being able to disappear into a crowd's gonna come in handy." From the display she selected a comprehensive stage make-up kit. "And to do that---"

"I need my own make-up," Buddy finished. He sighed. "I'm trying to go respectable, Vanessa. I just, I can't see me ever needing it."

"Look at it this way, then," said Vanessa. "The kit is fifty bucks. If you add the bruise make-up, it's sixty. The amount you've just been paid for two weeks of work, you can afford it. And maybe you won't use it. But maybe you'll hit a situation when you're glad you did get it."

Buddy gave Vanessa a long look. "You seem awful convinced I need it."

"You worry about me, with Rax," said Vanessa. "And right now, I'm worrying about you with this whole deal. Maybe it's exactly what it seems. Maybe Matt Trakker's a real nice guy and all he wants to do is a good deed. And maybe it's not and he wants something else."

That was dangerously close to the truth, Buddy recognised. "So?"

"So, what I'm saying is shit can change. And I think you'd be dumb to dismiss it, just because it's something you did for shits 'n' giggles or you think it's somehow automatically wrong."

Buddy opened his mouth to disagree and to tell Vanessa to put the make-up kit back on the shelf when a new thought occurred to him. What was it Matt had said? Everything they did had to count double? Well, he wasn't a great driver or pilot; he wasn't much of a fighter. But he could sneak around and get into places he wasn't necessarily wanted. Maybe it wasn't something MASK would need, but Vanessa was right; he'd be dumb not to keep it up.

"You're right," he finally murmured.

"I always am," Vanessa retorted, a small grin on her face as she handed the kit over. "You'd think you'd know that by now."

Buddy rolled his eyes. "You know what; you'd get on great with Cassidy up at the gas station. She always reckons she's right."

"I don't reckon I'm always right," Vanessa shot back, poking her tongue out at him, "I **know** I am!"

Buddy rolled his eyes again and shook his head. "Yeah, yeah. C'mon; I'm starving."

* * *

After dinner in McDonalds, where they had both teased the lobby staff by using their straws as blow-pipes and bits of chewed up napkin as ammunition, they walked slowly back through the mall, heading for the truck. 

"It's been fun," Vanessa mused.

"When you haven't been trying to turn me into a human fashion doll," Buddy griped.

"Aw." Vanessa patted him on the head and ruffled his hair. "It's a tough life having someone help you out, huh?"

Buddy ducked away from her. "Quit that!" Vanessa laughed. "All right; yes. You've helped a lot."

Vanessa turned to face him and bowed. "You're welcome."

It was Buddy's turn to laugh. "Thank you." They resumed walking. "I do mean that, though."

"It's what I'm here for," Vanessa replied. "You can always pay me back by giving my car a tune up sometime."

"Done," Buddy promised. "You just say when."

"It won't be for a couple of weeks," said Vanessa. "The folks I'm working for are sending me to LA for training."

"Training?" Buddy lifted his eyebrows. "What is it you're doing again?"

"Troubleshooting." Vanessa's tone suggested that Buddy ought to just drop the matter there.

"Troubleshooting what?" Buddy asked, ignoring the hint.

"Stuff," said Vanessa.

"Is Rax involved?" Buddy asked feeling his previous happiness draining away in a rush.

"Does it matter?"

"I don't trust Rax."

"I'll be fine." Vanessa sighed. "Please, don't wreck a perfectly good day by being an ass over this. It's my life. You're doing what you wanna do; lemme do what I wanna do."

Now Buddy knew Rax was involved. "Vanessa---"

"End of discussion, Buddy," she said, cutting him off. "I'll be fine. I'm only gone for two weeks, anyway. And when I get back, I'm gonna collect on that tune up."

Buddy sighed. "All right."

They walked on in silence for a few moments, Buddy thinking furiously, trying to come up with a way to stop Vanessa from leaving. And then the answer hit him: Matt was going to need to hire a test driver for MASK, who better than Vanessa? Since it had been Mac who'd told Matt about Buddy, Matt was bound to have heard about Vanessa, and Alex could certainly vouch for Vanessa's driving skills if Matt hadn't seen any of the racer competition they'd won. It was perfect.

"What time do you leave?" he asked.

"Tomorrow morning," Vanessa answered, frowning. "Why?"

"How 'bout I come to see you off?"

"Only if you're not hatching some plot to stop me leaving," said Vanessa. "I'm warning you; I'll kick your butt from here to next Christmas."

Buddy held up his hands and feigned innocence. "You're going away for two weeks. I may not like who you're going with but I wanna say goodbye."

"Your girlfriend's going away?" enquired a voice. Looking round, Buddy spotted the speaker. It was one of the kiosk vendors nearby whose kiosk was filled with jewellery of various different types. He opened his mouth to correct the automatic assumption, but the vendor got in first: "Why not buy her something to remember you by?" And the vendor gestured at the impressed array of bracelets.

Buddy glanced at Vanessa. "Do you want one?"

"I'd love one," Vanessa replied, smiling. "You pick."

Buddy surveyed the display, looking for one that would suit Vanessa. The gold ones were too showy while the woven bracelets all looked far too garish. At the end of the display were a small handful of silver bracelets, which was definitely more Vanessa's style. One of them was a narrow band of silver, carved with a sort of scrolling, knotty design. At the centre of each knot was set a tiny chip of gemstone. Some of the gemstones were purple and sparkling while the rest were clear and almost diamond-like.

"That," said the vendor, seeing Buddy's interest, "is a bracelet designed to protect the wearer from evil spirits. The knot work and the amethyst chips ward off the spirits while the quartz chips boost the amethyst's power."

Buddy smiled. It was perfect. "I'll take it."

"For someone who's going travelling, you've made a very good choice," said the vendor.

Buddy paid for the bracelet and then handed it to Vanessa.

"It's beautiful," she said, sliding it on her wrist. "Now will you stop worrying about me?"

"I'll try," said Buddy.

* * *

It was nearly dark by the time Buddy returned to the mansion. The drive back, after dropping Vanessa back at Rax's apartment, had mostly been spent chewing over his plan. If he went through with it, and Matt agreed, would Vanessa go for it? _Probably not,_ he realised. _But I can't just let her go. Can I?_

Mac had been convinced Vanessa was getting herself deep in trouble and the fact that she wouldn't now tell him what this job involved just seemed to confirm Mac's gloomy prediction that she was already lost. But that couldn't be right. Hadn't she promised nothing was going to change their relationship; that he'd always be her big brother?

As he finally parked Firecracker in the underground parking garage, Buddy recognised he was no nearer to actually deciding what to do. _Maybe I should just talk to Matt,_ he wondered as he started to gather his various bags together. _He'd probably know what to do._ It felt like an intimidating idea, though he recognised that whatever he did, he still needed to talk to Matt.

Maybe it would be better to ask his advice before demanding he recruit Vanessa!

Decision finally made, Buddy carried his purchases up to his apartment, dumped them in the living room and then headed back down to see if he could find Matt. He knew that if he didn't do this now, he'd probably lose his nerve and spend the next two weeks kicking himself for not having done anything.

At the bottom of the stairs, he started to turn towards the rooms the Trakker family used, but voices coming from the opposite direction told him that Matt wasn't there. Following the murmur of chat, Buddy headed through the entrance hall and into the corridor on the opposite side. Just beyond the entrance hall, he found a door partially open, with light streaming out through the gap and into the otherwise dark hallway. The voices were coming from here.

"The good news," an unfamiliar voice was saying, "is that Bruce Sato has security clearance. He is who he says he is and what he says he is. I've even been able to obtain transcripts from MIT and AIT. Go ahead and bring him in; he looks like exactly what you were looking for."

"Good to know, Duane," Matt answered. "Thanks."

"If that's the good news, though," said Alex, "what's the bad news?"

Buddy reached up to knock, not wishing to eavesdrop any further. Then Duane spoke again: "Buddy Hawks is a whole other can of fish."

Buddy froze. Matt had done a security check on him?

"If you're going to tell me about his criminal record," said Matt, "don't bother. I already know all about that from the authorities here in Boulder."

"I wasn't going to," said Duane. "I know he's been paroled to you. You asked me to look into his associates, though, and that's where you've got trouble."

The hallway suddenly seemed airless. What had they unearthed? From the way Duane was speaking, whatever it was, it was bad. Buddy couldn't have moved now if his life depended on it.

"First up, Sylvester Rax – Sly, to his friends," Duane was continuing. "He's a nasty piece of work. Before he moved to Colorado two years ago, he was arrested on suspicion of assault. That was in Nevada. He wasn't charged; not enough evidence for it. His bail in that case was paid off by one Miles Mayhem."

"VENOM!" Alex exclaimed.

Matt swore fluently. "Damn. Not good."

"It gets better," said Duane, in a tone of voice that implied the opposite. "The other person you wanted me to check into, Vanessa Warfield, is Rax's girlfriend."

"I knew that much," said Matt. "That doesn't necessarily mean anything, though. I'm positive Buddy didn't know about Rax."

"Maybe, maybe not. Vanessa has, though, been living with Rax for the last eight months and has been seen in the company of Bruno Sheppard and, yesterday, she met Mayhem." Duane paused. "She's in, Matt. In deep."

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Kenner and a bunch of animation studios. All I own is the situation, plot and backstory.

Author Note: If you're a M.A.S.K. canon purist, you may want to look away now. I'm playing a little fast and loose with one or two canon elements. I hope you can forgive me.

With many thanks to Tnonsum, Angel, Ganeris and Freespirit127 for editing, feedback and patient hand holding.

* * *

The Coming Storm

Four

There had to be some mistake.

That was Buddy's first thought. For Rax to be mixed up in VENOM was one thing; it even made a kind of sense. But Vanessa? His little sister? It couldn't be true.

Could it?

A note of sick doubt sounded in Buddy's mind. Mac had talked about Rax being trouble, and about Bruno Sheppard, and Vanessa had been oddly reluctant to talk about this job of hers.

Buddy wrapped his arms around himself as if cold. Could it be true?

"Thanks Duane," Matt said, breaking Buddy from his thoughts. Inside the room, he could hear the sounds of people standing up.

He couldn't let them find him here.

Without thinking about it, Buddy turned and ran, his feet automatically taking him not up to the apartment but down to the parking garage. The first germ of an idea came to him: Mac had known about this. He climbed into Firecracker and started her up.

Mac had helped him before, maybe he could help now.

* * *

Buddy parked Firecracker in the alley at the back of Mac's yard. Though it was late, he knew Mac would still be here, just in case any of his kids needed him. He'd saved Buddy trouble at the home times without number, thanks to that. Vanessa, too. He just hoped that Mac would tell him the truth this time. Whatever it was, he deserved to know.

As he got to the front of the shop, though, he saw Rax's motorcycle parked up and he felt his heart drop. He hadn't seen Rax since the failed robbery and this was the last place Buddy wanted to renew that acquaintance; for one thing, Buddy was fairly sure that Mac wouldn't take too kindly to Buddy slugging the other man. No matter how much Mac might dislike Rax, Buddy knew he disliked violence even more.

For a moment or two, Buddy hesitated. Should he just turn round, go back to the mansion and talk to Matt instead?

Then he heard the sound of breaking glass.

Fear and concern drove Buddy the last couple of yards to the door into Mac's shop. But once he was there, pure and undiluted terror froze him rigid to the spot: The whole glass front of the store had been shattered and through the gaping hole he could see four people in the shop. Mac and Rax he recognised. The other two, both big, mean-looking men, were unfamiliar. One of them had a bright red mohawk haircut, the other an eye patch. They were holding Mac in place while Rax stood in front of him; taunting him.

"Not so tough, now," Rax sneered, his voice carrying through the smashed shop window. "You shouldn't have messed in affairs that didn't concern you, old man."

Mac sneered right back. "You know your trouble, Sylvester?" he asked, emphasising Rax's full given name. "You're just dumb enough to get yourself in over your head. And you are way over your head this time."

One of the men holding Mac, the one with the eye patch, drove a big, meaty fist into Mac's gut. Mac doubled over, gasping for breath and wincing in pain.

"Wrong, old man," Rax replied. "You're the one who doesn't know who he's messing with. Now for the last time, where are we gonna find that puke Hawks?"

For a couple of seconds, Buddy found himself unable to breathe. They were looking for him? Why?

Mac coughed. "I ain't tellin' you, an' I ain't gonna tell your boss." Mac coughed again. "So maybe you'd better just get on and kill me."

"Mac!"

Buddy hadn't intended to speak, but the name came out all the same.

There was one long, horrible moment of silence. Rax turned and looked straight at him, an expression of complete and total disbelief on the other man's face. Buddy gulped as Rax's expression changed from disbelief to savage satisfaction.

"Lookie, lookie, lookie," he drawled. Then, as his two pet thugs didn't move, he added, "Well don't just stand there! Grab the kid!"

Over the top of the command, Mac yelled, "Run kid; get outta here!"

"But what about---" rumbled Mohawk.

"Forget him," said Rax, pulling a gun from an unseen holster. "He's not important; it's the kid Mayhem wants, though Christ only knows why." He aimed the gun at Mac's head. "You've messed with the wrong folks, Mac; and now it's time to pay."

Buddy wasn't sure, later, quite what it was that got his feet finally moving; whether it was the sight of Eye-patch starting to lumber towards him or whether it was the sound of Rax firing his gun. Either way, as the gun's retort echoed through the shop, Buddy turned and ran.

He didn't know where he was going, he just ran. Anything to get away from the shop and Rax and the two goons. Through alleys, down back lanes, across highways, deliberately choosing turnings at random so as to ditch any pursuit, Buddy ran until his lungs were burning and his legs couldn't carry him any further. It was only then that he realised he was in a part of Boulder he didn't know too well, where the dark and forbidding looking buildings were all cramped together and covered in graffiti.

It was the part of town where Buddy had first met Mac.

Mac.

The reality of what had just happened slowly sank in: Mac was either dead or seriously hurt, all because Rax was looking for him. Reaction hit. Bile splashed against the back of his throat and it was all Buddy could do not to throw up on the spot. It was his fault.

Why was Rax looking for him? But the answer came in an unwilling rush. Rax had said Mayhem wanted him. That meant VENOM.

Another round of bile hit the back of his throat.

Rax was working for VENOM. Duane had been right about that. And if he was right about that, did that mean he was right about Vanessa?

"Well, well, well – look what we have here."

For a second, Buddy thought that the Pitbulls had once again found him on their turf. Then the tone of the words – both amused and pleased – penetrated. He was reasonably sure neither sentiment would apply to any member of the Pitbulls who found him. Looking round, he tried to detect the speaker, and finally spotted him, standing in one of the darkened doorways of the alley.

Presumably seeing he had Buddy's attention, the man stepped forwards, into the light of the one working streetlamp in the alley. He was a middle-aged man, a little paunchy but with enough sharpness to his movements to suggest he was still fit and capable of giving chase, should Buddy try to run.

"I guess it really is true; if you wait long enough, good things come to you," the man observed. "I've been looking for you m'boy. I have a business proposition for you."

"Uh---" Buddy swallowed. "Who--- Who are you?"

The man stuck out a hand in a very stiff gesture. "Myles Mayhem."

Mayhem. Leader of VENOM. International terrorist. The man who'd set Rax looking for him. The reason Mac was probably dead. Buddy felt sick once more.

"I want you to come and work for me," Mayhem continued, oblivious to Buddy's discomfort. "I'm told you're quite the mechanical genius."

"Work for you." Buddy swallowed, nausea turning to anger. He knew who'd probably have told Mayhem where his talents lay. Duane was right; Vanessa was working for VENOM. "Work for a lying, cheating piece of scum?" _Work for the man who's taken my family away from me?_ "No."

For a second, Mayhem looked taken aback. Then his expression turned apoplectic. "What do you mean no?"

"What does no usually mean?" Buddy retorted. "I don't want your job, I don't want to work for you and I don't want anything to do with you."

"That's too bad," Mayhem snarled. "I was prepared to make you a very rich man. As it is; all you're going to be is very, very dead."

As Mayhem drew a gun from the holster at his waist, Buddy vaguely thought he ought to be afraid, but all he felt was a sense of resignation. It didn't seem as if there was anything left for him to lose; he'd lost Vanessa, he'd lost Mac. What else was there?

Buddy closed his eyes.

"You know, he's not worth it." Vanessa's voice sounded sudden and harsh against the silence that had been building in the alley. "He's just a nobody and if that's what he wants to be, let him."

"No-one says no to me and gets away with it," snorted Mayhem.

"And he won't," Vanessa promised. "With you, he could have been great. Without you--- I bet he won't ever make it outta this one-horse town."

Buddy risked opening his eyes and saw Vanessa's hand on Mayhem's arm, forcing the gun to point down, at the ground. He wondered where she'd come from, or why she'd even bothered intervening.

"Shit," she added, not looking in his direction, "if we just leave now, he'll be in trouble with the Pitbulls inside of thirty seconds. Why get blood on your hands when there's other folks just as willing to do it?"

And to Buddy's surprise, a smile started to appear on Mayhem's face. "I like the way you think," he announced. "You're right." He reholstered the gun and then gave Buddy a pittying shake of the head. "You could have been rich."

He stalked past Buddy and out of the alley. To Buddy's general surprise, Vanessa remained where she was.

"Buddy I---"

"You what?" Buddy snapped, anger forcing its way through the numb sense of shock.

She winced. "I'm sorry."

"Mac's dead, because of that asshole looking for me and you're **sorry**?" Buddy slowly shook his head. "If that's all you've got to say to me you can just go."

"Buddy---" She took a step forwards, hand out as if she was going to hug him.

"Stay away from me, Vanessa," Buddy snapped, drawing backwards. "I mean it. If you're serious about hooking up with that piece of slime then we have nothing else to say."

For a second she hesitated, hand still out stretched. Then she let it drop. "I guess we don't," she murmured.

Without another word, she rushed past him and out of the alley, following in Mayhem's footsteps.

* * *

Buddy walked back to the mansion.

It was a distance of nearly ten miles and it took most of the night, but Buddy didn't care. He knew he wasn't in a fit state to drive back and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk returning to Mac's shop, just in case Rax and his two friends were still there. And at least the pain and exhaustion of the walk let him feel something other than the soul-burning numbness that the evening's events had left him with.

As the first fingers of dawn started to steal across the sky, Buddy finally reached the beginning of the mansion's drive. Vague practicalities crossed his mind. In a couple of hours, he would have to go to work. Sooner or later, he was going to have to collect Firecracker.

Somehow, none of that seemed important.

He was alone.

Distantly, Buddy thought he ought to actually feel something about that, but all he could dredge up was a tired sense of disappointment.

"Buddy?"

Dull surprise made Buddy look up at the hail. Sitting on the steps of the main entrance, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, was Matt. Had he been waiting there all night? Why?

"Buddy, what happened?"

There was concern in Matt's voice. Genuine concern. It cracked the hard shell of numbness and suddenly, Buddy found himself barely a moment away from tears. "Mac's dead," he whispered. "Vanessa's gone."

Matt was up and off the step in an instant. "I'm sorry."

For a second, Buddy stared. "You're sorry?" he echoed. Anger suddenly swamped him and it was all he could do not to lash out. "You're sorry," he spat. "So was Vanessa; but you know what? That doesn't help. That doesn't make it right. That doesn't make any of this feel better." He went to step around Matt, but the older man stopped him.

"Buddy, listen to me. I am sorry. I'm sorry that this has all happened. I'm sorry that Vanessa's let you down. I'm more sorry than you can know about Mac. Above all, I'm sorry that I haven't handled this right."

Buddy stared at Matt again. "What?"

"I knew Mayhem was looking for you two weeks ago," Matt admitted quietly. "And I knew his methods. I knew he'd probably try to get to you through your friends, your family. He's done it before."

Buddy was on the point of snapping off another retort, but Matt's final sentence brought him up short. "What do you mean?"

Gently, Matt led Buddy to the steps and guided him into sitting down. "I had a brother," he began. "Andy. He was a lot like you, actually. Mac used to say he could build an engine out of gum, string and duct tape and have it run better than anything that came out of Detroit."

Despite himself, Buddy smiled faintly at the description. Mac had said it of him, too, on more than one occasion.

"Andy went to MIT," Matt continued, "because that was what Dad wanted him to do, but he dropped out half way through his first year. He hated it there and got an apprenticeship with Ford instead. Dad was heartbroken, but it was what Andy wanted to do and it suited Andy a lot more than a bunch of dry classes."

"So what happened?"

"VENOM happened." Matt smiled bleakly. "Five years ago, I was working in Washington as a civilian analyst for the Department of Defence, when a bomb went off in the Canadian Embassy in Moscow. Two people died, another thirty were hurt. No-one knew who'd done it, or why. What little information we knew hit my desk, and I was asked to try and find out anything I could."

"And you found VENOM," Buddy guessed.

"Not right away. The Russian bomb was claimed by a section of the Russian Mafia as punishment for a Canadian court jailing half a dozen high profile members of their syndicate." Matt sighed. "None of the evidence bore that out, but most people were willing to accept it as an answer because it was neat, and my immediate superior, an Air Force colonel called Miles Mayhem, pushed for me to just drop the matter. But it didn't make sense to me, so I kept working on it, in my spare time."

Buddy nodded; he could understand that.

"Over the next six months or so, various things happened. There was a bomb threat against Amtrak here in the US, a couple of very high profile thefts in Europe, a few other things. And each time, someone local would claim responsibility. And then they slipped up. There was an attempted heist in London – they were trying to hit a gold warehouse and found the security had been strengthened significantly. They got caught on surveillance camera as they made their empty-handed escape, and while most of the pictures were blurred and unrecognisable, one was clear. It showed Miles Mayhem."

Buddy whistled. "Messy."

Matt smiled faintly. "One word for it."

"Was it really him?"

"Oh yeah," said Matt. "He didn't even deny it when he came back from 'vacation' – not to me, at least. To the guy in charge of our section, he claimed I was framing him." Buddy winced. "He'd stacked up a bunch of faked and forged evidence against me and, well." Matt shrugged. "I didn't get a chance to clear my desk."

Buddy winced again. "Wow." He shook his head. "People believed him?"

"The man's good," Matt replied. "Sneaky. Manipulative. Smart. Not afraid to lie and cheat to get what he wants." He shrugged. "Not everyone believed him, though. In particular, one of the Secretary of Defence's aides, Duane Kennedy. He came round to see me a couple of days later, asked me if I was interested in continuing to track Mayhem and his friends. I said yes."

Buddy nodded slowly. "MASK, right?"

"Eventually," Matt agreed. "Five years ago, we didn't know what we were facing and Duane wanted me to find out. So I packed up from Washington, came home, started digging and found stuff that I should have found months before that pretty much tied Mayhem into it all, big time. I passed it on to Duane who came back to me and asked me what I thought the best way of going after VENOM would be.

"Given everything I'd uncovered suggested that VENOM were highly mobile, I said some sort of light, mobile and independent task force; Duane gave me the go a-head to form it."

"So what happened?" asked Buddy. "What happened to Andy?"

"Andy came home," Matt answered. "Someone'd been hassling him and threatening him – my name came up and he wanted to know just what the heck I was dragging him into."

"Can't say I blame him."

"Me either." Matt sighed. "I hated the idea of involving him, but Mayhem had dragged him in. I thought the best way of protecting him was to bring him into the task force. So I told him the truth. About Mayhem, about VENOM, about what was going on. Andy just said 'where do I join?'"

"And Mayhem killed him," Buddy realised.

"Mayhem, Bruno Sheppard and Cliff Dagger raided our headquarters. They stole plans and weaponry. Andy and Alex were there and tried to stop them. They shot Alex and left him for dead, then they set fire to the lab. I arrived too late to do more than rescue Alex. Andy and the rest of the research, was gone. There wasn't even a body for me to bury."

In Matt's words, Buddy could hear the echo of old pain, pain that matched the hard knot of emotion resting heavily on his own heart. But at least Vanessa was still alive. At least there was the chance that she might come round and realise that Mayhem wasn't a good person to be with.

"When Mac came to me and told me Mayhem was back in town and looking for this eighteen year old kid who'd got all the same kind of talent as Andy, I thought I'd been given a chance to do it right this time, and instead, I've probably screwed up worse."

"No, you haven't," said Buddy. "Vanessa made her own choice." He swallowed. "Just like I made mine."

* * *

The day passed in a blur as far as Buddy was concerned.

There was a videoconference between himself, Matt and Duane Kennedy. Every last second of the night before was dissected and picked over in minute detail. It was clear, to Buddy at least, that Duane didn't believe him when he said he'd turned Mayhem's offer down flat. Buddy wasn't sure he cared all that much; Matt believed him, and when Duane tried to press harder, Matt simply said,

"Duane, he's already answered you. He turned Mayhem down. End of story."

Duane had backed off after that, but Buddy knew the politician didn't trust him.

When Duane had finished, there had been a police interview. Once more, Buddy found himself having to go over events for a disbelieving audience. The detective conducting the interview was clearly well acquainted with the highlights of Buddy's record, and in particular, the last thing he'd been charged with – namely the attempted armed robbery. He proved to be almost a sceptical about Buddy's activities the night before as Duane had been.

It was only when Matt asked if the detective was actually going to charge Buddy with something that the man let up. And even then, the man's parting shot had been a threatening, "We'll be in touch."

Then it had been Sarah's turn. Her kindness, however, was even harder to take than the constant questioning. She produced a meal of hot chicken soup and crackers, then gently saw him into bed and that, more than any of the previous treatment, brought him close to tears. The questioning and suspicions were normal. Compassion, especially in the face of Vanessa's betrayal, was unexpected, and it just seemed to underline what Vanessa had done.

The weekend followed much the same pattern of care and concern from the Trakkers and suspicion from just about everyone else. So much so that Buddy was actually relieved to return to work on the Monday morning, particularly when Earl greeted him with the news that his first job was figuring out which spark plugs were cross-wired in the Ford that had been brought in over the weekend.

Tracing wiring wasn't a job Buddy normally looked on with fondness because of its tedious and frequently frustrating nature, but this was one time when the tediousness was something he relished. It gave him something else to think about, something else to concentrate on.

So instead of complaining about it, he just nodded and got on with it. And for a while, at least, all he needed to think about was the spark plugs and which wire was going where.

"Hey kid."

Cassidy's voice was an unwelcome interruption. Buddy grimaced at the Ford's engine, then turned to see the administrator standing behind him, silhouetted in the garage doorway. "'Sup?"

"This came for you today, in the mail," Cassidy answered, stepping into the garage and holding out a plain brown envelope.

The writing on the envelope was Vanessa's. Everything that he'd been so successfully avoiding came crashing back and he suddenly felt faint. Why was she sending him a letter? Hadn't she made everything clear enough already?

"Buddy?" It was possibly the first time Cassidy had ever used his name; it made her sounded concerned. "You OK?"

He swallowed. "Fine," he lied. "Thanks." He waved a hand towards one of the workbenches. "Just stick it down there; I'll look at it later. It's not important."

Cassidy gave him a long, dissecting look, then shook her head. "If you say so." She set the envelope down where Buddy had indicated. "Y'know, if you want to talk---"

"I don't." Buddy turned back to the car and made a show of returning to work.

"All right," said Cassidy quietly. "If you say so."

Buddy listened to her retreating footsteps, waiting until he heard the door of the shop slam shut before turning his attention to the letter. Part of him was tempted to just toss it straight into the trash; she'd shown just how little she actually cared about him in the alley that night. Except that wasn't true. She'd stopped Mayhem from just shooting him; she could have told Mayhem where to find him, and she hadn't. She did care; she just didn't care enough. Maybe that was what hurt the most.

He should just pitch the letter into the trash. There was no point in pressing on the wound. Better to just forget about it – forget about her.

He picked up the envelope and went to throw it out. Then he stopped. Maybe it was going to explain. Maybe it was going to tell him that it hadn't been how it looked. Maybe---

Buddy flipped the envelope over and ripped it open. But there was no letter. No note. No words. No explanation.

Just the bracelet he'd bought for her.


End file.
